


Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

by Claire



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Booker needs therapy, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Sad French Trash Panda of Betrayal, non-sexual voyeurism, referenced character death, referenced hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: When Booker wasn't alone, when it wasn't just him and his thoughts and the vodka that ran through his veins, one of the others would watch over him. They didn't understand it, but they made sure they were there anyway.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 04's Kinktober Breathplay prompt
> 
> Title from Hozier's Work Song

Booker hates that he does this, hates that he needs this. His cock is hard in his hand as he tightens the belt wrapped around his neck. If he closes his eyes he can feel the piercing cold of the freezing wind rushing through him and the sound of the birds that waited in the trees, waiting for him to die on the end of a noose. Their cries had covered the choked gasps as he'd died, warmth spreading over the front of his trousers to drip down his leg. The mandrake was already growing by the time the team found him and cut him down.

When he wasn't alone, when it wasn't just him and his thoughts and the vodka that ran through his veins, one of the others would watch over him. They didn't understand it, but they made sure they were there anyway.

Andy would sit cross-legged on the end of the bed, her eyes sharp as she watched his hand move over his cock and the way his fingers tugged on the belt, slowly cutting the air off until the spots danced on the edge of his vision and his cock jerked, splattering white over his legs. On some nights, she'd clean him up, run her fingers through sweat-slicked hair as she carefully removed the belt and covered him with a blanket. He thinks he felt her kiss his forehead on those nights, but he's never been sure and he never had the courage to ask.

There were nights he slunk back to his room, the itch under his skin in a way that felt like he could scratch himself until he was bloody and it still wouldn't be gone, when Joe and Nicky follow him back. They don't say anything to him, they never did. They'd settle on the oversized armchair that always seemed to appear in whichever room Booker claimed for his own; Joe sitting first and Nicky in his lap.

Booker would hear the soft murmurs between them, words in a language he doesn't recognise and can't understand. He'd close his eyes and let the cadence and tone wash over him as he wrapped the belt around his throat before he wrapped his fingers round his cock. The leather would be looped in his fist as he'd pull it, feeling it against his neck, cracked with age.

It would press against his pulse point, too loose at first, and he'd tighten it with each word he'd hear from Nicky and Joe. Tighten it until his body felt too large for his skin and every demon inside him would burst out in an all-encompassing wave as he felt the buckle slide home. And he'd claw at his throat if he had the strength - harsh and freezing and feeling the rope around his neck as he swung - but he doesn’t, so he just lets the black creep closer.

His eyes would stay closed as the fingers would carefully undo the belt and slide it off his neck. It would be Nicky one night and Joe the next, and he can tell them apart from just their touch. There are days he watches them reach out for each other, Nicky's hand cupping Joe's cheek or Joe's hand on the back of Nicky's neck. Days he watches them when they're not together. Elegant fingers preparing food for the entire team, or covered in charcoal from sketching for hours.

He wonders if the touch is different when it's him under their fingers. They're so careful with each other that he can't help but think about what it would feel like if they held his throat, their grip tightening with each breath he tried to take. If their grip on his neck would mirror that on his cock.

He thinks that if he'd asked the night after Merrick's, when they were all exhausted and bloody and Nicky was picking bits of his own grey matter out of his hair, that Joe would have been a lot more hands on. That his hands would have wrapped around Booker's throat and he'd have squeezed until the darkness descended and the pain receded and the pleasure crested in a way that Booker knows is fucked up.

Joe would have looked at him with the hatred in his eyes that's been there since Andy told them of his betrayal. He would have used his artist's hands, used the fingers he uses to create such beauty to leave marks of red and purple on Booker's throat, signing his anger across Booker's skin as Nicky watched.

Booker grips his cock as he tightens the belt further, pulling it so hard he can hear the leather creak. He can see Joe on top of him, feel the hands around his neck. He can hear the silence that surrounds them, and he watches as Joe takes Nicky's hand and they both walk away, leaving him to the cold.

His throat is closing, and the breath can't escape his body and it's still not enough. Tugging the belt roughly, Booker arches and comes as the belt snaps in his hand, drops of come scalding his skin where they fall, staining him like 30 pieces of translucent silver.

Dropping back onto the bed, Booker lets the broken belt fall from his hand, grateful that only the shadows are there to witness his tears.


End file.
